


Keeping score

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: English NT, Gen, england nt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:38:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7058623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On international duty, Eric Dier comes to the realisation that an own goal isn’t the worst thing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping score

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place after the England 2- 1 Australia international friendly. Eric Dier, filling in as CB, headed an OG into his net in the 75th minute. People were waiting on Dele Alli to take the mick out of Dier's mistake, but Alli didn't do that.

**England 2--1 Australia**

_Squawka: 72': Eric Dier comes on to replace Chris Smalling._

_75': Eric Dier scores an own goal._

_Oh Dier, oh Dier._

_@DeleAlli- isn’t there someone you want to humiliate this morning? #ericdier_

 

Eric threw himself into his seat as soon as he got the tick beside his name, and cleared to get on the coach. Headphones on, _Minha Casinha_ thumping in his ears. The cheery soundtrack a contrast to his mood as the coach dipped, with the rest of the players coming on. 

Hoodie pulled up, Eric stared through the bus window, seeing everything and nothing, the floodlights tracing the outline of The Stadium of Light. The semidarkness of twilight outside made the coach window semi reflective as if he were looking in a mirror, seeing his eyes rimmed with red, his nose rosy.

The players passed by him in single file, before they tumbled into their seats, the coach gently rocking to and fro as it absorbed their movements. Daniel Sturridge came on face stony, eyes straight ahead, his mood thunderous as he stomped towards the back of the coach.

John Stones quick on Sturridge’s heels, only to stop at Eric’s seat. Their eyes met in the reflection briefly. Stones opened his mouth to say something, only to change his mind and shut it. Good lad. 

Gauging Eric's mood quickly, Stones gave a quick nod and moved off. 

Eric ignored the pop of text messages which bubbled through the music. His loved ones knew that he wouldn’t respond. Not now, anyway. 

Pressing his hands against his eyes and feeling his cheeks heat, Eric willed it to go away. Just to hold it together until he got to his own room. Just- 

He felt the seat give beside him, a cheeky nudge at his shoulder, of which Eric offered no resistance, sent him teetering towards the window. Eric’s only response was to drop his head, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and give an exasperated, “Bleuugh!”

“You know we won, right?”

Eric peered at Dele from behind his fingers, the live version of _A Minha Maneira_ now rocking in his ears. Xutos e Puntapés wasn’t necessarily his band - way before his time- but they were familiar sounds of his childhood. Of radios played in restaurants and shops in and around Lisbon, served with bacalhou and memories.

Dele sat there, fresh like a new twenty pound note because he didn’t play tonight. Clad in his white England training jacket with dark jogging bottoms, and a smile on his face, he looked content to the point of smug... He looked like a guy that didn’t do a header into his own goal. 

The thought sent Eric back to burying his face in his hands again, his face aflame with embarrassment. “Oh, _God_.”

Dele turned the screw tighter. “Cracking goal, mate.”

“ _Bleuuugh_.”

***

The sharp buzz of the phone alarm cut through the air - not as if Eric slept through the night anyway.

They arrived at their hotel, late enough for everyone to go straight to their rooms. Next morning, early start, warm up training, suitcases packed, and back to their base at St George’s Park. 

Lulled by the white noise of wheels on road, Eric fell asleep. 

The same white noise made him stir two hours later. 

Groggy, half awake flicking through his phone, wincing at the glee of pithy comments at his expense. 

_Great header! For Australia!_

_Roy might want to review his plans for 3 CBs_. 

Cobwebs from sleep clearing up, Eric scrolled through his social media mentions, checked for the @s, instagram. Mentions of him from Dele. None.

Painfully awake now, Eric looked at the seat beside him. Found it empty. An England team blanket thrown across his knees, the seat beside him cold.

Eric wondered.

***

St George’s Park in its own way, was a small hamlet in itself. An actual _sprawl_ in Staffordshire, world class facilities, complete with its own Hilton hotel. Manicured lawns, surrounded by green on green, and far from everything. 

A lot of the guys didn’t like it, the isolation. 

To Eric it still felt _novel_ , something to gape and wonder at. The buildings constructed as if they were seeds carefully arranged in the middle of a field, and left to grow. The undulating mountains dotted with trees on the horizon crowded it in, made it feel cut off from everywhere else. 

Still feeling out of sorts, Eric dragged his suitcase beside him towards the hotel. 

“Mad, innit?” Kyle Walker greeted, falling into step beside him. “That everything starts in two weeks.”

Eric nodded, the realisation making his stomach lurch and cramp. “Yeah.”

“Listen, about last night-”

Eric stopped, giving Kyle a glare, but Kyle was too good natured to take it seriously, which was annoying, because Eric felt as if he wanted to be mad at someone right now... and didn’t know why. 

“It happens, eh?” Kyle grinned, the silver glint in his teeth flashing in the weak sunlight. Kyle was so good humoured and irrepressible, it seemed churlish not to smile back.

But it was hard.

***

After evening matches, morning were for analytics.

With chairs tucked under desks, and a white board to the front of the room, it felt like school. 

Their individualised ipads with various clips of what happened the night before, took it to a whole other level. Eric had his headphones in his ears, commentary to forty two seconds of wretched embarrassment of his own goal. 

Fraser’s face a comical ‘O’ of surprise and dismay as the ball rocketed past him, slotting into the back of the net. 

The questions for self reflection (asked of every player, to be fair) mocked him at every turn. 

Especially this one, which stated the bleedin’ obvious.

_In retrospect, is there anything you would have done differently?_

For fuck’s sake. 

A break for lunch, and Eric was glad to put the ipad down, and get out of there. The Hilton’s dining room modest, tables set out with place settings and a cluster of four chairs to each table. Along the sides the food trays set out, everything hot with fragranced smells spicing the air, and the low buzz as the rest of the players came in, speaking to each other in pairs. 

Already, everyone started gravitating towards the tables. Danny Rose being Danny Rose, talking to Marcus Rashford, England’s new golden boy, the next fairy tale. Rashford with quiet smiles and the type of manner that sent the FA scrambling to throw a smoke screen over him from the prying press. 

Danny Drinkwater walking and speaking with Harry, now scratching his chin deep in thought, as he listened. The tension of title and Spurs falling at the chase had been cast aside since last week. 

Eric helped himself to the vegetarian option - curry chickpeas and rice- smiling his thanks at the server who directed him to the paneer. As soon as he sat down and got busy with his meal, he saw a movement of dark blue bottoms by his table. Before the legs tracked back, and stilled. 

“You shouldn’t let it get to you, you know.”

“Pardon?”

“Last night, I mean,” Eric raised his eyes from table level to face John Stones, who looked as English as his name sounded. Mousey coloured hair cut short back and sides, faded blue eyes wide and earnest under a fringe in a lean face. In his hands, he held a tray with his food in cheerful dishes. The smells fragrant and steam curling from a bowl of soup with something like sourdough bread and a pat of butter. 

“An own goal.” Eric ground out. Surely that should be enough said?

John shrugged, a roll of shoulders that seemed almost gallic in its nonchalance, surprising coming from a lad who hailed from Barnsley, broad Yorkshire accent and all. “The press will get over it, like.”

Eric leaned back in his chair, and waved his hand in the general direction of a seat. John sat down, his smile small and ironic. “You give them their head, keep yours down, it will go.”

With a start, Eric remembered John Stones’ story this past season. Touted as a ball playing centre back, the next Rio Ferdinand, Chelsea tabling bids that seemed absolutely ridiculous, and painted the back pages red with copy, the price on his head multiplying like a robber’s ransom. 

Stones had tabled a transfer request. Transfer quest had been denied, the transfer window shut. Fans smugly singing, _Money can’t buy me Stones_. 

Only for his form to fall off a cliff this season, like his team’s position in the table. 

“At least you haven’t played there for sometime, you know? I know when we train together- you’re a bit rusty, but you know what you’re about. Just... ignore everything else.”

 _It’s easy for you to say,_ Eric wanted to say, but remembering Stones’ terrible season, and his howlers with Germany and Turkey international friendlies, it truly wasn’t. It seemed that they knew each other well for Stones to offer him a form of kindness after all. 

Eric forced himself to try for conversation, for it was only fair.

“It’s only a friendly, right?” 

“Yeah,” John nodded. “Just-”

Laughter erupted from the doorway, and their heads turned. Dele clapped a hand over his mouth in response to whatever Ross Barkley was saying. 

Like everyone else, Dele and Ross turned out in the country’s colours. Red jacket with the three lions crest, dark blue training bottoms. Hodgson and Neville demanded it, as long as they were on the clock they had to dress in the appropriate kit. 

“Now there’s someone who’s having a good season, hey?” 

“Yeah,” Eric drawled in agreement as he looked at his friend. Dele and Ross now by the food court with trays in hand as they helped themselves to food from the heated pans with tongs and spoons. 

From his vantage point, Eric took in Dele. His form lithe, almost ballerino to Ross’s bulk. Dele laughed at whatever Ross was saying, but then, everything sounded funnier in a Liverpool accent. His eyes, dark and narrowed, scanning the tables in the room, only for his eyes to rest on Eric. 

Dele beamed. 

Did that wave now famous enough to have its own twitter account. 

Eric, bewildered, waved back.

***

“Happy Birthday, Stonsey!” Ross lead the cheers for his Everton teammate, rowdy as anything. Everyone joined in, even Daniel Sturridge. By special dispensation, Stones got a fairy cake, done in his club colours with a sweet pink candle and ironic _d’awws_ all around. Everyone else, half oranges and bottled water, because it was still team training.

Half embarrassed due to being picked out by staff, John covered his face with his hands. 

Shaking his head, Eric sipped at his bottled water. Everyone now milling about, Dele sat beside him, his phone on the table in front of him. Eric took out his own phone, scrolled through mentions and @s, found nothing. 

“Where is it?” 

Dele frowned, eyebrows arched in confusion. “Sorry?”

“You know, the _banter_ ,” Eric mimicked a strong, glottal cockney accent, straight out of Enfield. So strong, it veered on parody, stomping the ‘t’ into non existence, the ‘er’ becoming ‘uh’. If Ryan Mason had been around, Eric would have been boxed around the ears for taking the piss out of the his accent, and he knew it. 

“My own goal. Cracking header- too bad it’s in your own net,” Eric huffed, as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I - just.”

“Been waiting for me to prank you.”

Eric huffed, eyes staring straight ahead. The conference room being set up for the Champions League match, with the projector and screen descending from the roof. Waitstaff now setting up various stations with crudite platters, and appropriate drinks, because potato chips were the devil’s food in camp England. 

“To say something.”

“You seemed broken up enough about it,” Dele answered as he picked up his phone from the table, tapped out his password to flick through messages on his whatsapp. “It’s not like me missing a goal when we’re two up. But...” he trailed off, his mouth in that half smirk he did at times, the look he gave Eric long and considering. 

At times, when Dele looked at him like this, Eric half wanted to know what he was considering. 

Thought about the ways in which Dele’s considerations turned into pranks. Decided that he jolly well didn’t need to know.

“If you want-” Dele started, grin now absolutely wicked, “I can -”

“I’m grand, thanks.”

“You sleep like the dead though,” Dele continued. “I tried to wake you up, but no joy.”

“I need my beauty sleep.”

“You’ll be sleeping forever at that rate, mate.”

“Oi! ” Eric half laughed, as he tapped at his heart, pretending to be mortally wounded. “That’s pretty lo-”

The words caught in his mouth as the strains of the champions league anthem hit the air. 

Real Madrid vs Atletico Madrid. Eric’s heart rolled and thumped in his chest when he realised the same time Dele did. His smile half dopey with wonder, his eyes on the screen. 

“That’s us,” Dele said, utterly transfixed on the screen, his eyes wide taking it all in. “Or it will be.”

“Champions League final?” That was a tall order, given their potential seedings, draws... just. 

“Give over. Don't over think it.”

And it was Dele’s conspiratorial smile that did it, gave Eric permission to be swept up by the pomp and glory of what was to come. 

Andrea Bocelli’s singing of the iconic theme, racketing up the anticipation. 

The tiros of both sides large enough to be seen from space,it seemed. The messages for their teams for ways to make them dream. _UNDECIMA!_ and _TUS VALORES NOS HACEN CREER!_. The flags of both sides, rotating on the field held by people the size of ants from the aerial views overhead. 

For the European Champions came down to this; the intimate cross city of Madrid derby on the world stage, _Meringues_ vs the _Colchoneros_. 

Football royalty vs football upstarts. 

With Atletico Madrid, Eric thought, eyes on screen, they might have been looking at their future.

***

The match ended on penalties, 5-3.

 

Dele exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. By this time, the room had thinned out. Save the players from the league’s top four teams: Leicester City, The Arsenal, Tottenham Hotspur and Manchester City.

This included Stonsey and Barkley, who bade their goodbyes before drifting away, with Barkley teasing Stones about his lovely wee fairy cake. 

On the screen, still drama, even after the game. 

Juanfran in his red and white and blue, walked towards the Atletico Madrid supporters, slow and solemn. The supporters still waving their scarves and flags, the noise undimmed undimmed for their teams. Juanfran’s strides measured, now stopped, as he stood in front of the stand in the San Siro, clapping for his fans, tears in his eyes, his expression _broken_. 

His deep bow towards the Atletico section made Dele’s heart beat faster, because that took a lot more spirit than anyone had a right to ask for at that moment. To turn yourself and face your supporters after the ache of a loss, ready for censure, but hoping for forgiveness. 

Only to be humbled by the latter. 

“That was a match, eh, Diet?” 

Dele turned to his friend, not wanting to sit with this moment alone, because it felt too big, too tense. 

Even with the dim lighting, the room darkened by the lack of light outside its windows as well as inside, casing their surroundings in cinema style as they could reasonably get it, he realised that Eric had gone suddenly pale. 

“Dier?” Dele reached out, touched Eric’s arm. Felt how dry and hot his skin was underneath his palm, as if Eric caught a fever. “You alright, mate?”

Eric sighed heavily, head bowed for a few seconds, like he did when frustrated. Be it by a frivolous yellow card and realising it notched closer to ten yellows and a suspension in the league, or losing at video games to be broadcast on Youtube. 

Like clockwork, Eric’s head snapped up, eyes blinking, the colour high on his cheeks, the tips of his nose and ears. 

“Yeah,” Eric’s voice dragged out the word, as if distracted. He pushed himself away from their shared table, taking his warmth and solidity when he got to his feet. 

“I need,” Eric said, before shaking his head as if he’d dozed off, and woke up with a start. “I need to go for a walk.”

“I can come with.” Dele paused, unsure of Eric’s mood.

Eric shook his head, and did that face where he tried to smile, but looked as if he’d bitten into a too sharp tasting orange slice instead. 

“I-” Eric’s voice now apologetic, “I don’t think I’d be good company.”

“You’re never good company, Diet, but we live.”

“Ha,” Eric laughed, and Dele knew he’d roused him out of his strange mood.

 _Almost_ , because Eric looked at him, his face apologetic, pale eyes troubled. “I _do_ want you to,” he started, “but--”

“It’s fine,” Dele answered, keeping it light, no pressure. The difference between getting a yellow and a red card was knowing when to push his luck, and knowing when to stay clear. He decided to stay clear. Eric’s emotions now on edge, because somehow, that result had triggered this mood. 

The look Eric sent him - grateful and warm- went a far way in Dele curbing his impatience to needle his mood out of him. 

“If you change your mind-” Dele raised his phone and shook it, only for its light to flash. A shot of pure white scything the darkness. It would have been embarrassing, but it made Eric laugh. Short and kinda staccato, but he’d take it. Eric tapped at the table with his knuckles for a few seconds, seemingly torn with indecision, before he made his choice. 

“Night, Dele.”

 

Fingers tapping against the table, Dele pouted, looking out of the now mostly empty room, half figuring out his next move. The Champions League match now over, it was near to half ten, and they had the whole Lions and Roses charity gig tomorrow, and general training to be cracking on with. 

He could go to bed now, and hop on _Call of Duty_ like everyone else. 

Or check his emails, to see if he had any upcoming sponsorship commitments and read the treatments sent to him that he had to look over before being whisked away to the venues. Or-

“Fancy seeing you here, Dellstroyer,” and that was Harry, dressed down like everyone else, because training had been basically over. Harry was always _on_ though, dressed in the England polo teamed with some dark bottoms. In his hand, he had a platter of vege- what was the word Eric used again? Oh yeah, _crudites_ , which were essentially vegetable sticks served with a bit of dip. 

“H.”

“Can I--?”

“Sure,” Dele gestured, taking in the chairs and the table with one smooth motion. “Have a seat.”

“Billy no mates,” Harry teased, sitting down beside him, putting the platter of vegetables on the table between them. “’S not exactly like you, Dele, being all alone,” the teasing softened with a smile. 

“Sometimes, it’s good to be alone. You know, _solitude _.”__

__Harry chuckled, snapping a carrot stick in half. “As if you’d even know the meaning of that word. But seriously, what’s up with Dierwolf?”_ _

__Dele rolled his shoulders. “I don’t have a Scooby, mate.”_ _

__Although he had an inkling._ _

__“What a result, eh?” Harry crunched at his carrot stick, ignoring the aioli and blue cheese dips, because Harry had inhuman reserves of control. Dele didn’t and reached forward for a spear of asparagus, dipped its tip on the aioli dressing, and popped it in his mouth. It had less to do with feeling peckish and more to do with gathering his thoughts._ _

__“I’d have pegged Atletico to win it myself,” Dele admitted, around bites of steamed asparagus stick. “But Real Madrid-”_ _

__“Twice in three years.” Harry finished, and that about said it all, really. He reached for another carrot stick and Dele made a face. He never really got on with carrots. Yeah, okay you had to eat them because vitamins and roughage, but to eat them _willingly?_ _ _

___Bleurgh_. _ _

__“Next year, that’s us.”_ _

__“What, at the final?”_ _

__Dele laughed, giddy at the thought of it._ _

__Playing at Cardiff, fifty thousand strong, the anthem, the glory._ _

__“Why not?” he asked, daring the fates to either trip him up, or give him what he wanted. He’d done that all his life - _why not?_ and it had never held him back. _ _

__“Quite,” Harry said, just as confident as Dele._ _

__The scenes at San Siro still happening on screen, the Real Madrid players with their family on the field, children tumbling on the green, or bobbing on the white of their fathers’ shoulders. Various flags patches of colour in the background._ _

__Owen Hargreaves now speaking with Gareth Bale on the screen, a former Tottenham lad who made the step up to the hot seat of Real Madrid. “To win the Champions League trophy two times in three years? It’s...” and Bale’s grin rivaled the shine of the trophy itself. “There are no words.”_ _

__Bale had swapped one white shirt for the other, and _Why not?_ the voice small to the point of almost tinny, asked in the corner of his mind._ _

__“So, about Eric,” Harry began, “you don’t think he’s rattled by the own goal, do you?”_ _

__And just as quickly as the voice piped up in his mind, it vanished._ _

__Dele’s attention now on Harry’s question, remembering Eric’s face when he realised his mistake on the field in the seventy fifth minute. He’d been upset, screaming at himself on the field, before he pushed it away and focused on the rest of the game with great effort._ _

__Eric tended to beat himself up to exhaustion when it came to mistakes, until he just - zonked out- like yesterday. His head propped up against the bus window, his mouth half open, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks._ _

__Not wanting to wake him up, Dele threw a blanket over him and went off to speak with Andros._ _

__Next day, Eric showed up, slotting into training next day with John Stones. Because the gaffer decided on three CBs with Eric slotting in ‘just in case’, Eric strode out, determined, pale faced, mouth set in a firm line. He set to working in tandem with Stones, speaking with him, mirroring his moves, trying to forge a years’ old rapport in the space of two weeks._ _

__Dele understood, it was like showing up and being paired with a dance partner when you didn’t even know each other’s moves, but you had to do it for Queen and country on the field in a month’s time. It had the makings of a crap Disney kids movie- and getting an egg in the face in front of all of Europe- but that’s the situation they were in right now._ _

__It helped that Stones was a pretty decent bloke._ _

__Everyone knew the shitty season he battled with, and the cloud he’d been called to the National Team under, but a crap season didn’t mean that Stones lost his ability. What made him a top lad was the fact that he never whinged and got on with things._ _

___Dele stood on the sidelines, doing kick ups with a ball, and generally hanging around as Eric and John stayed on the field after training, trying to simplify game plans and having signals between them, looking like traffic cops with an itch._ _ _

___“A low block like that-?” Eric asked, shifting his body, mimicking the stance of Stones. “Or-” and he said what he was doing, and Stones did the actual opposite of his actions simultaneously._ _ _

___Later._ _ _

___“Or we could-” Stones shifted, breaking into a sprint, feint and dummy, Eric hot on his heels, before he tripped and spilled on the grass._ _ _

___“We might have to try something else?”_ _ _

___Eric hauled himself into a seating position, legs out in front of him, and shared a long look with Dele, now standing on the sidelines, ball in hand. Eric motioned for the ball, and obeying, Dele let it drop from his hands and kicked it high and curving, dropping by Eric’s feet. Eric got to his feet, and rubbed at his thigh as he faced John. “Again.”_ _ _

__

__“I think...” Dele started, flicking his phone back and both between his hands. “I think he’ll get over it. You know what he’s like.”_ _

__“I told him that he has to,” Harry admitted, pushing the vegetable platter away, resting his elbows on the table. “With football, it’s like one of them etch a sketches, you know?”_ _

__“An etch a sketch, Dad?”_ _

__“ _Dele_ -”_ _

__Dele cracked up, because Harry sent him a look that was more like Lloris than someone almost ten years younger. “I know what they are.”_ _

__“Fine,” Harry said, but he couldn’t sound put upon even if he’d tried. “I mean, with football, the only match is the next match, right? You forget the one before, you have to. Clear the clocks, and reset, _Pacific Rim_ style, as it were.”_ _

__Harry spoke from hard experience, Dele knew. Own goal in the match against Swansea and all._ _

__“And did Eric take on any of this wisdom, then?”_ _

__“Did he bollocks,” Harry groused, his eyes on the screen. Dele laughed because Harry sounded like such a _Dad_. “But I’ve noticed that you’ve yet to put anything online.”_ _

__“I think...” Dele said delicately, “Eric has enough to be going on with.”_ _

__“Look at that,” Harry’s eyes now glued to the screen, his mouth half open with wonder. “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Dele answered, looking at the trophy still seated on the pitch with everyone posing for pictures around it. “It is.”_ _

____

***

Sopwell House, in St Albans just twenty six miles from London, impressed on first blush. Expansive green fields framed by leafy woodland. Once a former seat of some not so minor aristocracy, and now transformed into a hotel slash country club slash spa, Eric admired the clean lines of it. The sturdy solid stone arch, contrasting with the straight, ordered lines of the building set a few hundred metres in.

Acres of green landscape as far as the eye could see, dotted with neat garden sets of chairs and parasols, women dressed for the summer, dresses all frothy and shoulders bare and burnished by the sun. 

Being called up to the English NT wasn’t just being called up to train. 

There were side commitments to their partners as well, in addition to their commitments to the EFF - England Footballers Foundation.

He remembered Dele telling him something about it, back when Dele’d had been called up for the National Team for the first time, and returned to Hotspur way, bubbling with surprise at the publicity side of things. 

“It’s a mad t’ing, Diet,” Dele had said, “it’s not like the under nineteens where you just.. turn up and play, you know? It’s a lot of things, I guess? Turning up for UNICEF- ”

“Show off,” Eric grinned, as Dele rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “You’ll treat it as something out of _Hotel Inspector_ , when you get called up,” Dele said, as they’d walked out to training that day a couple months ago. “You’ll probably be judging the table settings and the food everywhere we go.”

“I don’t do that!”

Looking at the room that was his for the night, and gauging the aesthetics of it, Eric realised that he did do that. 

Tastefully decorated wallpaper in cream and khaki, bed spread points sharp at the corners. No dust on the surfaces of the commode and side table, curtains matching the drapes and no- that wasn’t an euphemism of any sort - he realised that Dele might have been right.

***

Gary Neville was a stickler for things, time management being one of them.

You’d have thought his time away in Spain would have made him a bit more... forgiving of certain failings in others. Ha. 

Dele had yet to get a bollocking in terms of his timekeeping and he wasn’t going to start now. 

Crap. 

If he remembered correctly they had to meet in the hotel foyer at five, before going towards the living room. 

And he hadn’t even had time to - 

Wondering if he should risk looking for his gum, and weighing it against the bollocking he’d get if he didn’t, Dele grabbed at his tie and jacket, with a huff he sprinted out of his room, skidding across the floor. The lift just two doors down, to the right. His dress shoes felt unnatural, with the sheened floors underfoot giving the unpleasant feeling of slipping on black ice. 

“Whoa.” Dele windmilled his arms, coat and tie fluttering in his fists like flying feathers. He righted his balance just in time to see Eric by the lift, just pressing his finger for the lift to come up to their floor. 

At Eric’s half surprised laugh, Dele played it off, with a shimmy of his shoulders and preening. 

“I do this all the time.”

“Secret agent man,” Eric teased, and unlike Dele, Eric was already dressed, and standing upright in his dress shoes. 

Jacket on, tie tied, knot securely tucked in under his neck. Normally, Eric wasn’t one for wrestling with gel and a brush, letting his hair fall where it may, but tonight, he seemed to have taken a page out of H’s book and wrestled his hair into submission. 

The doors to the lift opened, and Dele scampered in, tie hanging in a loose strip around his neck and shoulders, as he shrugged into his jacket. 

“Your tie,” Eric pointed out, as Dele shot his cuffs, so they peeked out from the jacket sleeves neatly. He tugged on his sleeves, wondering why there weren’t thumbholes in dress shirts. 

“My tie?” Dele parroted, distracted by the fact that the sleeves went no further than his wrists. 

With a sharp _tsk_ Eric batted Dele’s hands away- and with an ease that Dele might have envied if he were into that sort of thing- Eric tugged, folded, dragged. 

“Neck.”

Dele titled his neck, giving Eric access, the brush of Eric’s knuckles on his skin tickled, and not unpleasant. The lift had a four way mirror, casting their reflections all around them. Weird. The light above combined with the gel gave Eric’s hair the lustre of old gold, his eyebrows and lashes about two shades lighter, like sunbaked sand. 

“Done,” Eric finished, taking a step back, and nodded to himself in satisfaction. Good timing too, as the doors pinged open, with everyone already waiting in the foyer.

***

“Who thought Rooney had such a ... that he could... erm,” Eric said later. The table settings had it such that people didn’t sit with their league club mates as a matter of fostering team unity in the squad, so in between courses everyone milled around in the atrium, or spilled over in the nearby gardens to catch up with their mates with regards to gossip.

Eric and Dele were among the lot, but further aways from everyone else, standing on a bridge their elbows leaning against its curved deck, over a pond seemingly designed for Instagram pictures and filters. Or at least, a posh perfume ad on TV. 

The night so still, the surface of the water like a mirror underneath, water lilies floating along its surface, the arc of a cheerful red bridge making a graceful bow. Despite the lateness of the hour, the sky still held the light, hinting at the long summer days to come. 

“Who knew that Neville played the guitar? Mad,” Dele agreed, tugging at his tie. His jacket already whisked off somewhere, and Eric got the feeling that if Dele could have loosened his tie, and uncuff his sleeves just to keep his hands warm, he would have done. 

In the near distance, Harry and Marcus Rashford were speaking. The TV cameras only got a glimpse of Harry’s personality; studious and thoughtful, but he could be a decent storyteller as well, if Marcus’ face was anything to go by. 

“Are you alright, Diet?” 

Eric’s gaze drifted to the pond underneath, seeing their reflections in the water below them. Dele staring straight ahead, and feeling brave, Eric slid a look towards Dele. 

“I think so,” he dragged the words out. “Last night I walked around the entire complex, and I should be, but-” he sighed. “I don’t know.”

“It’s not that ow -”

“No, it happens. Neville reminded me that I can’t be as bad as Carragher when it comes to own goals.”

“Oy.”

“Sorry,” Eric said, as Dele winced as if he’d been hit, because he had been a Liverpool supporter growing up. “It cheered me right up though,” Eric rubbed it in. 

“Tosser,” Dele said without heat as they exchanged a grin, before Eric sobered again. 

“It’s that Champions League match, you know? Atletico Madrid - you think, that’s what we want to be. They’re as passionate as we were - even more. That -” he stopped, gathering his thoughts together, as he rubbed the nape of his neck. 

“It’s-” Eric tried again, swallowing a lump in his throat as Dele shifted, looked straight at him, and Eric wondered if he knew. _I looked at that match and I saw our future, if we’re fortunate, and I don’t know if I-_

“You wonder if you can bear to feel as badly again as you did this season,” Dele started, thumb hovering at his mouth as if he wanted to bite its cuticle. 

“You look at Juanfran, how he -” Dele frowned, eyes up and to the left, looking as if he was trying to recover a long lost French conjugation from the dim recesses of his memory. “He was- _gutted_ , yeah? His penalty kick ended Atletico’s chances in winning, and then he had to turn to the supporters and be willing to take whatever... Whatever.”

“Yeah.” Eric said, not surprised that Dele had cottoned on to the fact. He’d always been clever. 

Eric steeled himself against the memory of that match, still as visceral as the first time he saw it unfold. Self belief and passion got Atletico there, but control - they’d lost it at key margins of the match. 

Margins, but enough to be devastating. 

“I don’t mind losing,” he began, “but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to -” 

“If you weren’t, Diet, you wouldn’t be here, playing for England. Giving yourself to a country where they’ve been singing _It’s coming home_ every two years and we _believe_ it _every time_ , although it’s been thirty years now.”

“It’s my birthright.”

Dele sputtered a laugh at this, and Eric joined in, because playing for England was- playing for England. Dysfunctional and mad; snake bitten by previous generations who went out of international tournaments with a whimper. But they signed up for this anyway, because they wanted it. 

“It’s mine as well. But we’re together, right? If I remember, there’s a whole hashtag around that.”

“Oh _God_ ,” Eric groaned, resting his head on his elbows as he remembered it. The hashtag #togetherforEngland was definitely cringe. 

He closed his eyes as Dele gave his shoulders a quick rub, and sighed at the comfort.

“Ow,” Eric hissed at Dele’s poke at his shoulder blade with his finger. 

Eric lifted his head, sad for the moment to end. “I think they’re ready for us now,” Dele pointed in the direction of the dining room, as he straightened up from leaning against the rail. 

“Everyone’s going inside.”

“Wait, just one minute,” Eric reached over, snatching at Dele’s wrist, slackening his hold immediately so it wouldn’t be uncomfortable. Dele’s hand characteristically cold to the touch, and automatically, he rubbed his thumb along Dele’s wrist, trying to chafe it into warmth. 

“I didn’t say,” he started, tilting his head in order to look at Dele. “You missed a prime bantering opportunity in the Australia match. You could have gotten epic social media mentions, but you didn’t do it. Cheers,” Eric finished before Dele could even get a word in. 

The flash of surprise across Dele’s face, doing a double take as if he didn’t understand what Eric was talking about.

“Oh, _that_ ,” the flash of surprise giving way to that impish grin again, and Eric steeled himself for the zinger. “Next time. We only have three CB’s you know.”

Eric pressed his fingers of his free hand against his eyes, as he huffed out of a laugh. 

“You. Just,” he stopped, looking away from Dele towards the balcony doors that opened towards the garden, their tables inside set for the next course, the room touched with tints of blue and red. Looked back, and suddenly realising he had been holding on to Dele’s hand for a tad too long, let it go. 

“You owe me one, Diet.” Dele said in quiet tones. Eric leaned in his space and whispered,  
“Do one, Dellboy.”

Dele’s soft laugh ringing in his ears, Eric now seeing Chris Smalling now at the edge of the garden, playing the role of a sheep dog as he scrambled from side to side herding everyone inside; almost turning an ankle on the smooth green in his dress shoes, imploring, “Lads, it’s time.” 

“I can’t wait for training,” Dele murmured, throwing an arm around Eric’s shoulders as they drifted down the bridge towards the ground. “Wazza’s singing is doing my head in.”

“You shouldn’t talk.”

“Bully. You’re giving me a complex.”

 _As if_ , Eric thought, because Dele's self confidence had always been pretty unshakable. He looked at Dele’s distinct profile, shadowed with the light from the garden lanterns, now switched on due to the darkness stealing in. Not that Eric would _ever_ admit it to Dele, but he did owe him one for not launching that online salvo. That being said, he knew that Dele knew. 

“Just one more hour, Dellboy, and we’re off, I think.”

“Roll on, Euro 2016.”

The lurch of his heart and the sudden shortness of breath was sheer excitement, Eric told himself. One more week until they landed in Chantilly, and their first match against Russia. 

“Yeah,” Eric said over jangled nerves, his brain blanking on saying anything pithier than, “yeah.”

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Context is for the weak, but let me give you some anyway.
> 
>   * St George's Park is a purpose built location for football. They have specialist playing fields to stimulate various playing conditions and a Hilton Hotel located on site. It's [located in Staffordshire, which is about 90 mins by car from London](http://www.thefa.com/st-georges-park/discover/location%20). Supposedly a lot of Spanish teams (Barcelona) do like to use it for their pre season training due to the cooler climate (as Southern Spain can be pretty hot around June/July). Word has it that Hodgson isn't a fan, because it's relatively far from London (which is why you see the English NT training at places like Tottenham Hotspur's training ground, and Watford's training ground as well). But the FA built the ground, blast it, and the English NT will use it, so there.
>   * England Footballers Foundation (EFF) is a foundation decided to good causes and funded by the player's match fees as well as various partners and it's been going on since 2007. Every year the players champion a good cause. This year it's for Honeypot (child carers). [information can be found here](http://englandfootballersfoundation.com/%20)
>   * Sopwell House [is pretty impressive](http://sopwellhouse.co.uk/?gclid=Cj0KEQjwj7q6BRDcxfG4pNTQ2NoBEiQAzUpuW-CHyJx0XLIEWfHeHRyLLqNAZ4ey5YFMUaN0-GX4enwaAlaZ8P8HAQ%20%20). The England NT had a charity do there called Lions and Roses (the lion and rose motif have been English symbols for sports for centurires).
>   * In this fic, Dier and Stones are doing a process called Life Kinetic [supposedly a lot of German football clubs use this (Dortmund is one), in that you're trying to get the players to know and trust each other implicitly, in order to eradicate mistakes because they don't second guess, think too much and make mistakes](http://www.thisisanfield.com/2016/05/jurgen-klopp-employing-modern-techniques-improve-players-reaction-speed-liverpool/%20). I didn't really get into it (that would have been a whole other different fic) but yeah 
>   * The Champions League final between Real Madrid and Atletico Madrid took place on Saturday, May 27, 2016. Atletico lost, and yeah, gutted for Juan Fran and Simeone 
> 



End file.
